


a whiter shade of pale

by Spacefille



Series: A Whiter Shade of Pale [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Darkfic, Heavily Implied Torture, M/M, Oral, Rape, implied rape, very blackrom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-27
Updated: 2012-11-02
Packaged: 2017-11-17 04:02:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/547407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spacefille/pseuds/Spacefille
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU Future fic, Alternia is restored in all its horrible glory and Feferi is not in charge. </p><p>Karkat is a blood prisoner and Eridan is his guard. </p><p>Eridan POV. Dark.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. deterioration

.

There would have been a time when he would have yelled at you, all curses and fury in a tiny package, screaming at the universe. Now he eyes you wearily as you approach, the hopeless gaze of one who knows his life is over focused on you. He looks away when you complete your approach and kneel beside him.

You draw water from a bowl and run a cloth over bruised and blood encrusted ribs, and he flinches and gasps soundlessly. He can’t help that, it comes automatically, his body rebelling against whatever control he might have once had. The cloth comes away streaked with blood, and some of the newly washed cuts offer up their weak protest by refilling with bright red, flaunting his mutation.

You wish you could kill him.

You’ve killed thousands before, it’s not something you’re unable to do, you’ve even killed friends, caught in the horror of an unwinnable situation and crushing loneliness that typified your childhood. But him…

You know that in his condition it wouldn’t be that hard to fake. You could strangle him - you could place a hand over his mouth and nose and force him to stop breathing.

He is so injured that no one would suspect a thing.  

You can’t.

Your kismesis yells at you for this, rages, pins you down with his powers and fucks you so hard you can barely walk straight… all out begs. Do something other than watch him die slowly, let him suffer slowly, just kill him.

Or let him go.

You laugh at him. If you let him go both you and your kismesis’ lives will be just as forfeit as his is and no matter how much you hate him you’d never want him to die for your mistakes.

He insists on seeing him, so you let him, half out of spite. He kneels by the cell and lifts him up with his power and holds him through the bars and cries. Your prisoner is too weak to do anything but try to offer up raspy reassurances with a voice you didn’t even know he still had, hand shaking so hard he can barely lift it, coming up to pap his cheek. That just makes your black lover cry harder and you force yourself to keep watching coldly, refusing to feel pity for the fool for letting his emotions get the better of him.

He is so angry that night, so full of helpless rage and you lay there and take it, take it as he nearly kills you, stubbornly refusing to raise a hand in your own defense. He stares at you with his bi-colored eyes as you cough weakly, rich purple blood leaking from the corner of your mouth, ears, crotch. Your gills are torn and you are unable to do anything but just lay there and breathe, glad, at least, that your lungs work above water or you’d be in danger of drowning in your own bodily fluids.

Your kismesis cleans you up silently afterwards, tension vibrating through every part of him as he does so. You tell him bitterly that he should have finished what he started, the only words you speak the entire evening. He doesn’t reply.

You can barely move the next day.

Even your prisoner notices, which is saying something, recognition flaring in his blood red eyes as you force back a pained groan to kneel. You ignore him, or try to, as you do what you do every day, run a cloth over his naked, battered body, cleaning the cuts and wounds, old and new.

A hand touches your thigh. That hand trembles violently, one of the fingers is broken, another so swollen it can barely move, but it’s a hand, a small show of pity it makes your throat threaten to close up. You don’t want his pity. You might have at one point, a very long time ago, but here it’s just wrong, uncalled for, misplaced. Cleaning him between the thighs is even more painful tonight, and you can’t look at him.

Instead you finish washing him and retrieve the food you’ve brought him, you know if you didn’t feed him he’d have died by now, starved to death. You know your kismesis would be pissed at you even more for prolonging his suffering. He eats silently, it’s hard for him to chew, let alone swallow, even with water to wash it down. He stares up at you the entire time and you wonder if he’s doing this for you, forcing himself to eat because you want him to.

That hand, that battered broken hand catches you before you can go, and you’re too slow and in too much pain to get away quickly. The fingers that are not broken curve in slightly, catching the fabric of your pant leg. It tugs, and then tugs and then _tugs_ and you still, breath catching in your throat as he moves his hand higher and higher still, falling against you. You’re sore, still sore as hell and you whimper softly.

“Let me,” he rasps, his voice unable to speak above a whisper and you whimper again, trying to pull away. There is strength you don’t expect in that hand as it catches on the hem and you freeze, then do as he says.

You let him. You let him… you help him squirm down your pants to reveal yourself, the dark marks from bruising and shallow cuts, crescent shaped wounds from digging claws. He draws himself forwards, every movement pained and a struggle, and presses his face to your crotch. His mouth is warm, wet. Welcoming as it kisses you, then opens to accept you, pulling you inside, open wide enough that the teeth don’t catch. You shut your eyes and slump over him and feel impossibly, wretchedly dirty. You feel even worse when you come, still too dry from the night before to produce anything much, but enough to coat his tongue and drip to the floor from swollen lips. Your own face burns with embarrassment as you clean that as well, unable to meet his gaze at all.

You cry for the first time since this entire thing began when you leave, openly and so hard it leaves you shaking.

You don’t return home that night, you can’t or you don’t want to. He finds you anyway, you forgot how powerful he is, and he drags you home silently. You don’t think you can take another round, not tonight, and when he uses his power to pin you down something in you just gives.

He picks up on it, he must have, because he lets you go. You don’t move, you don’t want to move so you lay there in a pathetic heap in the middle of the floor, eyes staring off at nothing. He moves closer to you and you flinch and realize with not a small bit of irony that you might be as broken as your prisoner is in some ways.

He pulls your head in his lap and strokes your hair, holds you until you fall into a troubled sleep, wondering why your kismesis is acting so pale.

.


	2. restoration

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I left out the accent quirks because they felt awkward and out of place in this particular work. Also there was only one way for this fic to go...

.

You walk into the cell block with your supplies and the day guard isn’t done yet. This has happened before and you just ignored him in the past, let him finish… but now you just stare. You’re disgusted, more than anything, he can barely move, let alone provide any enjoyment. He may as well be fucking a dead body for the reaction he is pulling from him. He’s too broken… too gone to be of any use for pleasure…

Except what he gave you the day before last, your mind reminds you.

You swallow, your eyes narrowing at the blue. He ignores you, you’re no threat to him, just another guard who happens to be saddled with a later shift than his, the pair of you entrusted to “care” for the prisoners the state has deemed important enough not to cull.

You know what you’re going to do before you _know_ it. You raise your hand. The blue doesn’t see it but your prisoner does, because his eyes widen and he stares at you like it’s the first time he’s seeing you in a very long time.

And there is the terror, the fear that they want, the reactions that have long left him, it’s directed at you as you calmly shoot the blue in the head.

The other guard slumps, cold and useless, to the side with his pants around his knees in the disgusting heap that he is. Your prisoner is shaking now, trembling in terror, you haven’t seen him do that in ages, and now he’s whispering something at you in his dying voice.

You’re not sure, but you think it is please.

You blink. Conscious reasoning thought filters back into your head. You approach him slowly and he’s outright panicking now, wretched gaze focused on you.

You tell him to stop it. Angrily.

That gets a hint, a flare of defiance in his eyes, a fading ember of what he once was. The movements stop and the trepidation subsides. He studies you now with his formerly flat dead eyes, a weary question in them.

You kneel, then lean down, pressing your lips to his.

He tastes like despair as you lick against his mouth. He is still, but only for a moment and then he is kissing you back, broken hand coming up to try to grasp your collar. You can hear the faint attempt at a growl welling up from the back of his throat that just can’t quite catch, he is far too worn and weak for it.

The fact that he even tries makes your heart pound a little faster. You pull away and stare down at him with shock that you can’t quite mask.

He looks away, his eyes half lidded, a flush rising to his cheeks in twin pinpoints of color against skin that is far far too pale for a troll. His breathing falters. He can’t growl and he can barely move to touch you.

 He does the one thing he can still do. He spreads his legs.

That makes something inside of you absolutely shatter.

You tell him no and gently nudge his legs back closed again, feeling raw shame well up inside of you. You’re not kidding yourself, you’re not, he would have never offered before he was caught, a couple months of daily beatings and nightly sponge baths shouldn’t change anything. 

Even though you’ve already used his mouth, at his insistence, you think if you did that you’d never be able to forgive yourself.

Instead you reach out and smooth oily unwashed bangs back from his forehead and press a kiss to his brow.

He starts to cry at that, an utterly miserable sight. Silent lines of pale red weave down his cheeks and drip into his hair. 

You pause, then sooth those away with kisses as well.

You have time, but not much and you get up after a few moments more. You strip the dead troll of his clothes, he no longer needs them, and pull them onto your prisoner. He realizes what you are doing and starts to shake but you don’t have time to sooth his tremors. He’s started to babble now, his voice still a series of whispery, pained rasps, cursing at you like he hasn’t done since the first week, telling you no no _no_ …

If you take him away you’ll die as well.

He’s right. You can maybe try to explain away the culling of the blue and get away with a demotion. If you rescue what remains of your prisoner…

And it hits with sudden clarity, what you already know. You don’t care anymore. You did at one point, strongly, but you think you might have lost – something.

He is what matters most… saving him. If you even can. Even though you know, despairingly, that your actions will eventually be in vain, perhaps you can make his life just a little less terrible for a very short while.

You’ll kill him before you let them bring him back here. If you can even get him out. You swallow at the thought of having to kill him very soon and press another quick kiss to his lips.

“I’m sorry,” you say, and understanding seems to flash across his face. He closes his eyes and turns his face away.

Your cape comes off then and you wrap it around him, covering him completely. You tell him to stay absolutely still. Miraculously he does.

He weighs so fucking little now that picking him up is nothing.

Getting through the security clearances is a bit harder. Being the second highest on the hemospectrum helps you glower your way out and proclaim your bundle is just a body for disposal and yes you have permission to remove it, don’t question me, but you’re still half surprised that you make it out in one piece. If you weren’t a former seadweller you are sure you wouldn’t have made it.

You head for home, warm precious bundle still safely by your side.

When you get home you uncover him very gently and place him at the feet of your kismesis. There is a challenge to go with the hopelessness on your face.

He wanted this in the first place. You know you’ve just killed your kismesis as well and it pains you incredibly, but at least now he’ll know why.

He is shocked, utterly, for several seconds before he steps forward and hits you across the face, hard, and you go down. He is absolutely enraged that you didn’t do this sooner, months ago. You expected this but you still glare up at him as you spit blood from your mouth, defiant again. This will be a big fight, you can feel it, especially when his powers start to crackle around him. You tense, expecting pain when a cry from your former prisoner distracts you both.

He turns from you and the power in the air fades.

Your charge is distressed as he stares up at your kismesis, begging him to not hurt you with his broken whispery voice and that does something to your insides again.

You get up, wipe your mouth on your sleeve and go to him, gathering him up in your arms. You hold him against you possessively as you stare down your partner.

He just returns your stare for a long moment, then swears violently and leaves the room.

You’re left alone in the room, cradling your former prisoner in your arms. He curls against you, warm despite the lack of weight, mouthing silent reassuring words against your shirt that he won’t hurt you, he’ll make sure of it, which is almost humorous seeing as he can barely move.

He doesn’t really fully understand what a caliginous relationship is actually like, does he? When you were growing up he had some sort of romantic ideal of occasional petty arguments with sex wrapped in there. Or maybe you have it wrong, since the violence in your relationship often leans a bit too far towards the permanent damage side of things and you can’t remember the last time you had sex that didn’t involve a lot of blood and pain.

You sigh. You’d rather not think about it right now. You try to make him stand instead, unsuccessfully, and then finally carry him to the bathroom. You set about washing him up as you usually do. This time you arrange the towels to make him comfortable, clean him with even more care than before. You set his fingers while breathing reassurances and he is so good and so still despite the pain and he offers you a strained smile.  You take a liberty you shouldn’t and map soft kisses into his damaged skin, breathing an apology with each one. When he gasps softly you can see he is reacting to your touch and he reaches for you weakly. Your will gives in as your lips touch and you kiss him slowly and carefully.

You are so fucking flushed. Nothing could manage to be more pitiful than he is right now. You break away with a small sad smile and wonder that if all this hadn’t happened that someday, maybe, something could have existed between you two. 

Probably not.

You dress him in your old clothes and he almost _almost_ looks normal again, if it wasn’t for the way his bones stick out and unnatural thinness, the dark bruises under his eyes and the fact he can’t sit up without help. You leave him bundled in comfortable blankets and promise that you’ll be back.

Your kismesis is writing something onto his husktop, typing furiously. You catch a flash of brown text, and then deep red and then green - a group chat then, old friends by the looks of it. Your blood freezes because that is something you could be culled for as well, but then you remember it doesn’t matter anymore anyway. Before long he slams the husktop shut. You watch as he stuffs it into an overflowing bag. 

“Let’s go,” he orders you.

Your partner can pilot ships and you break several more laws that are punishable by death by stealing transport.

You have no idea where you’re going, nor does your charge, but both of you follow without protest. It’s only when you see plant-life beneath your ship that you tense, a raw band of fear filling your chest. He’s taking you planetside, and not just any planet… home.

Oh _no_ …

If you’re caught on the planet, they definitely _won’t_ cull you on sight. You’ll be tortured, possibly for sweeps, just like your former prisoner…

He doesn’t seem to care. You stare at him in terror as he takes you down.

He lands you in a forest thick with trees.

.

.

.

The tree house looks vaguely familiar as you approach it, memories of your childhood coming back to haunt you. Your bundled charge makes a noise of recognition in your arms and you shoosh him, half out of fear that he’ll attract some sort of attention even though you know you’re probably very much alone in this place.

Your kismesis merely snorts. “Come on,” he says, and begins to climb.

You stare at his backside like he’s stupid and he gets it finally, once he reaches the top and turns to see you’re both still at the bottom. He reaches out with his power, plucking the troll out of your arms and bringing him up too. That leaves you to climb up by yourself.

You find yourself in a treehouse that is covered with dust and childish chalk drawings and stuffed toys. You remember the owner the moment you see the contents of the tree house.

Terezi. Of course.

“Now what?” You’ve settled onto an old couch and your delicate charge is dozing, his head in your lap. You pet his hair absently.

“We wait.”

The smug asshole couldn’t look more calm. He’s opened his husktop again and is typing away.

“For what?” you ask him irritably.

That gets you a shit-eating grin in reply and a nod towards the troll in your lap. “For his followers to come.”

That surprises you and you stare down at the troll in your lap. You had through he was a prisoner because of his mutation, not because of anything remotely close to…

Oh god, this explains so much.

You look back up and glare at him. “You’re talking about a rebellion aren’t you?” you demand to know. You very nearly shove the troll off of your lap. “You’re crazy, you’re _both_ crazy, you’re going to get us all killed!”

That gets another smile, this one half there and very wry. “You’re wrong,” he says. “We’re already dead. We might as well do something useful with our borrowed time.”

You try to force yourself to not hyperventilate. This is way worse than you ever imagined. “And just how many people are we going to take down with us?” you ask miserably, pressing a hand to your forehead. This is all your fault…

“No one,” he replies, and the cocky sure grin is back. “Because we’re not going to lose.”

You stare at him with your mouth hanging open for a long moment then look down at the troll in your lap. His eyes are closed but there is a faint smile on his face. As you look down at him he reaches up, fumbling for your hand. You take it in your own and he squeezes it lightly with the fingers that still work. You stare and you _stare_ and then, finally, you let out a tumultuous sigh and tentatively squeeze his hand back.

You’re totally and completely fucked.

.


End file.
